Advanced Matrimonial Studies
by AnthroQueen
Summary: When Jeff Winger looks back on it, he blames his awfully chaotic night on Crayola and that stupid, broken yellow crayon.


Advanced Matrimonial Studies

When Jeff looks back on it, he realizes it's all because of a stupid yellow crayon.

And homework. Who assigns homework to a _pre-school class_ anyway?

His ears are ringing as he's standing in the kitchen of their four-bedroom home just outside of Greendale County, staring disbelievingly at the out-of-control situation and cursing the day his wife came home saying she was going out with her friend Izabel (anyone who substitutes Ss for Zs are crazy, seriously). Just a moment earlier he had been quietly working at the kitchen table, and now three loud, wild and hungry children have burst his orb of silence and are demanding his attention at once. He shakes his head in disbelief and glances at the sobbing four-year-old at the kitchen table.

"We have to trace the letter R and color in the rainbow," Addison cries, sniffling, her big blue eyes brimming with unshed tears. "But my pencil broke and Charlie took the yellow crayon!"

Jeff's attention is immediately drawn to his five-year-old son sitting tauntingly on the kitchen counter. He's holding the yellow crayon way above his head so his sister didn't have a chance in hell of reaching it. Jeff sighs. "Charlie, why?"

"You said I didn't have to share my crayon if I was using it," Charlie said matter-of-factly, an evil grin on his face. "Well I _am_ using it- to draw on my pretend paper on the ceiling!"

Jeff groans as Addison wails harder and just then, the sound of a phlegm-filled toddler cough fills the room as his two-year-old enters the kitchen, suffering from a cold she picked up at daycare, but still demanding her basic needs. "_Daddy!_ I hungry!"

He does a double take when he realizes it's already six thirty and lifts the ill toddler into his arms. "I'm working on it, Tillie, I'm working on it."

"Hey Matilda," Charlie calls out to his youngest sister. "Want a crayon?"

"No!" Addison wails and screams her cries when Matilda gleefully accepts the yellow crayon and proceeds to snap it in half. "_Daddy_!"

"Alright, that's enough," Jeff exclaims, fastening Matilda in her booster seat at the kitchen table. He yanks his son down off the counter and Charlie's giggling face immediately changes. "Charlie what did I tell you yesterday about your sister?"

"That I have to love her 'cause she's my sister," Charlie mumbles, shuffling his feet. "And that I shouldn't bug her if I love her."

"Right," Jeff nods. "So-"

"But you said I shouldn't bug her," Charlie points out. "You didn't say I couldn't make her cry."

Jeff stares at his son. When did he become so much like his father? "New rule, kid. No bugging, no teasing, no making her cry. Any one of these will be punishable by a twenty-minute time-out. Are we clear?"

"Yeah," Charlie whines, impatient. "But Addie bugs me too, Dad! She broke my new Spiderman toy!"

"No I didn't!" Addison shoots back, her tears abandoned. "You dropped it after Mommy told you not to run down the stairs! It's your fault!"

"No it's not! You pushed me!"

"No I didn't! You fell!"

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

"No!"

"Yes!"

"Guys!" Jeff yells and the two are silent. "I've heard enough. This is obviously an argument for Mommy. Charlie, go wash your hands for dinner and bring me a tissue for Tillie's nose. Addie, go find another yellow crayon, or do your homework tomorrow. Either way, it's dinner time and I've had it with your constant fighting."

Addison hops off her chair, bringing her papers and crayons with her and slipping them back into her backpack. Jeff brings his fingers up to his forehead, massaging his temples slightly as he feels a headache coming on. Why he ever decided it would be a fun little experiment to be a parent was beyond him. Crossing the kitchen floor, he notices the blinking light on the crockpot and realizes their dinner was finished hours ago. It's snowy and bitter cold, so he's made them a nice beef-and-vegetable stew. Ladling it into four separate bowls, he places one at each spot at the table, wiping Matilda's nose with the tissue Charlie brings back moments later.

It's only a few moments after they've started eating that the next argument begins.

"I don't _like_ carrots, Daddy!" Addison whines, flicking at the floating bits of vegetable in her stew.

Jeff glances up at her. "Since when, Addie? You ate them last week."

"Because," She explains, sitting straighter as she does when she wants to drive an argument home. "They're orange and yucky. You can't eat orange things, Daddy. They're bad for you! Plus, you know what? They grow in the _ground_! Ew!"

"They do?" Jeff feigns surprise. "Where did you hear that?"

"Miss Katie told me," Addison tells her father. "Bunnies eat carrots, Daddy. Carrots aren't people food!"

"Carrots are bunny-_and_-people food and they're good for you, too," Jeff shakes his head, a smile forming on his face despite his frustration. "So eat up."

"No!" Addison cries. It's clear she's losing and she's _not_ enjoying it. "It's not fair, Daddy! We can't take the bunnies' food! That's mean!"

"Addison Claire," Jeff states and she's quiet. The middle name means he means _business_. "Eat your carrots."

She pouts and crosses her arms, staring at her bowl with a moody expression on her face. Charlie picks this moment to prove he's the better child and states, "I _love_ carrots!" while eating a huge chunk. Addison glares murderously at him.

"So does Tillie," Jeff chuckles at the two-year-old, who has stew in all places imaginable and Jeff realizes the bib? Clearly isn't serving its purpose.

Afterwards, it's bath time (following a very short dessert of chocolate ice cream that only Charlie got, because Matilda balked at the sight of it and Addison, of course, refused to finish her "carrot-y" stew) and Jeff allows Charlie to shower on his own while he bathes Addison and Matilda together in the kids' bathroom. It turns out to be a mistake, because Charlie nearly floods the bathroom by deciding to turn the floor into a slip 'n slide, but he lets it go because, honestly? The kid's a mini genius and he's surprised he himself has never thought of that.

But bath time has always been Jeff's favorite time. He gets to hear all of their individual little thoughts, like things Addison learns in pre-school, her friends of the day, and the silly little games she makes up with Charlie- when they're getting along, which isn't often. Matilda babbles on in her own way, sharing broken sentences about daycare, which is almost as pricy as the private school they're sending Charlie to, but worth it in the long run for the benefits she's earning. Jeff succeeds in scrubbing stew broth and smashed potato bits out of Matilda's hair and then there's the struggle of drying and dressing them all.

Charlie's pretty self-sufficient at five-years-old, but it doesn't mean he can do _everything_ himself. At times he still puts his underwear on backwards or wears a shirt inside out. Tonight, he hasn't dried properly, so his pajamas are sticking to his still-damp body. But he runs into Addison's room, where Jeff's attempting to clothe both her and Matilda, and shrieks excitedly, "Ha! I beat you! I'm dressed first!"

"No fair!" Addison wails, still wrapped in her zebra-print towel. "I didn't even start yet!"

"Addie, relax," Jeff tells her and turns to his son. "Nice try, Charlie. But your pants are inside out and your shirt's sticking to you. Why don't you go dry off and try again?"

"I can't dry off," Charlie reasons. "That wipes off all the clean. Then I'll be dirty again!"

Jeff laughs. "No, you won't. You won't be dirty until you do something dirty."

He sighs and turns around to re-enter his room, to try again. Jeff dries Addison and tries as best as he can to soak all the moisture from her hair. As she's dressing, he fastens a diaper onto Matilda's bottom and repeats the process, dressing her and drying her hair too. He's combing out Addison's hair, Matilda on his lap, when the older girl asks an insightful question. "Daddy? Why do we read books before we go to bed?"

"I don't know, Addie," Jeff chuckles, working out the tangles in her soft, honey-blonde hair. "What do you think?"

"I don't know," She responds. "I think we should do something different. We should play a game!"

"What kind of game?" Jeff asks warily. The last game they played while their mother was away ended in a stained couch cushion and a broken lamp. Yeah. Long story.

"We should play…" Addison trailed off, slipping out of her father's grasp as he moved to comb Matilda's curly hair. "Snowball fight!"

"You can't bring snowballs in the house, Addie. They'll melt." Jeff tells her, wiping Matilda's nose again as she coughed nearly in his face. Awesome.

"We can use paper!" Charlie suggests as he enters the room, having heard the plan and already getting super excited about it. "And we can make forts out of couch cushions!"

"Mommy said we can't use couch cushions anymore," Addison frowns.

But Charlie grins. "_Mommy_ said that. Daddy didn't say that! And Mommy's not home!"

Before Jeff can say another word, the two race out of Addison's room and down the stairs, already engaging in shenanigans Jeff really wants no part of. He sighs, glances down at his fussy, uncomfortable toddler and decides the other two are Britta's problem. She may not be home, but that's not his fault. In fact, that's what he'll use to defend himself when she comes home to a trashed living room and two rowdy children throwing paper maliciously at each other. She wasn't home. How was he supposed to deal with all of this nonsense himself?

Matilda is getting whiny and upset, and when Jeff checks the grandfather clock (a wedding present from Pierce… don't ask) in the hallway, he notes it's nearing eight thirty. He measures out a dose of Children's Tylenol, because he's sure she has a slight fever and the cold symptoms are worsening, not getting better, and fights his daughter until she opens her mouth to scream at him and he dumps the medicine down her throat. He's not proud of his actions, but if the medicine reaches her system, then the end will justify the means. Matilda screams for a good fifteen minutes after that, her crying broken by coughing fits here and there, before she settles into her father and gives up the fight.

Jeff secures her in her little wooden toddler bed, turns on her CD player which is already queued from her nap earlier that day, and cringes at Britta's choice in music for their child (Enya? _Seriously?_). He tucks her in, but she's still very stuffy, very congested, and very _uncomfortable_, so he knows sleep is probably a thing of the past for her for awhile. He rolls her over onto her stomach and begins to rub her back, hoping that will help the congestion and maybe even soothe her, but after three kids he's still not really great at this kind of thing. It seems like an eternity before Jeff sees her eyes start to close, then open, then close again, this time for good. He stills his hand, presses a kiss to her clammy forehead and stands, grinning victoriously…

… Before a crash is heard downstairs and Matilda's eyes fly open and she is immediately screaming.

Jeff groans audibly, scooping her into his arms and throwing the door to her room open. He's only halfway down the stairs before he hears Addison scream, "Daddy's gonna be _so_ mad!"

"Nah uh! Shh!"

He stands in the archway of the living room, face brooding with disappointment and a screaming-crying toddler on his hip. There are couch cushions and crumpled up pieces of computer paper _everywhere_. Literally everywhere, as in, it looks like it had been snowing inside the house all night instead of outside. There are several magazines askew and their family portrait (Shirley's idea. You think Jeff and Britta _care_ about shit like that?) isn't hanging straight. Charlie and Addison share a glance before immediately pointing at each other and simultaneously shouting,

"He did it!"

"She did it!"

Jeff inhales slowly and exhales slowly before asking, "Did what?"

Charlie and Addison, puppies-about-to-be-scolded look on both faces, point towards the coffee table. "That."

On the floor beside their coffee table is a shattered picture frame, glass splaying across the floor like a ripple in a pond. The frame itself is broken in half from the fall and the photo is crinkled, no longer glossy on display. It's a photo taken of the study group at Greendale's graduation ceremony just five years ago. The Dean had insisted on marking the momentous occasion and cementing them in Greendale's history forever. Chang had crashed the picture, even as Shirley and Troy tried to cover him up. And there was Jeff's arm, resting casually but purposefully around Britta's waist, growing ever-so-slightly with their first child.

He says nothing at first. And then- "Pick up the paper. Put the cushions back. Brush your teeth. And get in bed. _Now_."

They recognize his "I-mean-it!" voice and immediately get to work, not speaking or even daring to look at one another as they frantically pick up every tiny bit of fake snowball on the ground. They rearrange the couch cushions and triple check to make sure they're in the right order. Then, they scramble up the stairs, brush their teeth without elbowing each other in the cheek or the ribs, and flee off to their separate bedrooms, shutting the doors gingerly behind them. Jeff sighs and decides to deal with the picture mess later, calms Matilda down, and goes through the whole process with her once more.

It's nearing nine fifteen when he enters Addison's room, Matilda having finally fallen asleep. The little girl is perched in her bed, pretending to sleep but clearly isn't, really. When Jeff enters, she closes her eyes immediately and he grins, knowing she's fearing getting into deeper trouble. He sits upon her bed and she cracks an eye open. "Are you really mad, Daddy?"

"No, Addie," Jeff tells her honestly. Because, look at her. She's so perfect. How could anyone be mad at her? "But now you see why we don't have snowball fights in the house?"

Addison nodded eagerly. "Mommy said it's not nice to have snowball fights _outside_ either 'cause it hurts people. She said it's not nice to hurt people."

Jeff smirks. She would. "It's okay to do it outside if you're just playing."

"Okay," Addison yawns. "Will you read me a story?"

"Addie, it's way past your bedtime," Jeff stands but the little girl is insistent.

"Please! Pretty, pretty please with hot fudge and whipped cream _and_ a cherry on top?"

She looks adorably like Britta in that moment and it makes him grin. That, and who can say no to hot fudge, whipped cream, _and_ a cherry? He agrees and she cheers. A half hour and three bedtime stories later, though, Jeff's ready to put her to bed. She disagrees and begs for one more, but he knows any later and she's going to be a _bear_ in the morning. Finally, after much begging and refusal, Jeff switches on her nightlight and turns off the main one, closing her door and sighing with relief.

Across the hall, Jeff decides to check on his son, whom he's sure is sound asleep, as it's almost ten p.m. However, though the light is off, Charlie is sitting in bed, reading by flashlight and Jeff chuckles. This kid really does think of everything. "Charlie?"

He immediately yanks the covers over his head, a deer-caught-in-headlights look on his face. "Yeah?"

"You're supposed to be asleep, troublemaker."

"You said I had to be in bed," Charlie grins, the traditional Winger smirk. "You didn't say I had to go to _sleep_."

Jeff rolls his eyes, but he's grinning because his son is a carbon copy of himself. "Well I'm saying now you need to go to sleep. You'll need your rest because tomorrow I'm putting you to work."

Charlie panics. "Why?"

"You need to earn the money to pay for a new picture frame," Jeff teases and Charlie picks up on it immediately.

"It was Addie's fault," He yawns. "She threw a snowball at me and I didn't see it and I tripped and the picture broke."

"How does that make it Addie's fault?" Jeff asks, amused.

Charlie shrugs. "I don't know. It just does."

"Okay well, we'll see what Mommy has to say about it, okay?" Jeff says. "You need some rest."

"Goodnight Dad," Charlie says, snuggling into his Spiderman sheets. His obsession grew from a marathon with Troy and Abed. Jeff still can't decide if they're a good or bad influence on his kids.

Once he's sure they're all finally sound asleep, Jeff sweeps up the broken glass and picture frame and throws it all away. He tucks the picture into the corner of another frame, not sure what to do with it if it doesn't have a home. Damn. What a _night_. He hopes Britta's having a good time, because when she comes home, he's leaving for a week. He's earned it after tonight. Grabbing a beer out of the secret compartment of their refrigerator (yes, it's sad that they have to have this, but, hey, don't judge), Jeff collapses onto the couch and flicks on the television, but there really isn't anything on at eleven o'clock on a Saturday night.

Around an hour or so later, he's half awake when he hears two car doors slam and then hysterical laughter. There's harsh talking that's too loud for this time of night- or early morning, technically- and then the sound of drunken steps coming up their front walkway. If there's loud talking, it means there's conversation, and Jeff scowls when he realizes Izabel is coming up to the door with Britta. He can't stand that woman, to be honest, and if she thinks she's going to be coming in here and crashing on their couch, well she's got another thing coming. In fact, he decides to tell her this and yanks open the front door, just as Britta is reaching out for it.

"Oh, hey!" Britta greets him brightly. "I didn't know you were going to be there."

"Look at that! You've got your own little doorman!" Izabel shrieks excitedly. "I should get one of those. Where do they sell you?"

"Hello Izabel," Jeff says tightly. "Nice time tonight?"

"Only the best," She tells him, tossing her mile-long black hair over her shoulder and stumbling a little on her stilettos. "We went for dinner and then drinks and you'll never guess what was going on at the bar?"

"I bet I won't," Jeff replies sarcastically.

"Karaoke!" Izabel shouts. "I wanted to do it _so_, _so_ bad but Britta chickened out… Until we got a few drinks in her!"

"Okay, okay, but tell me they picked _American Woman_ on purpose!" Britta laughs, still a little tipsy and Izabel snorts.

"No, honey, _I_ picked that!" She grins. "_American woman! Stay away from me! American woman! Mama let me be!_"

"_Don't come hanging around my door_," Britta joins. "_I don't wanna see your face no more!_"

"_I've got more important things to do than spend my time growin' old with you!_" Izabel croons and misses pitch by a mile.

Jeff grabs Britta's arm and pulls her over the threshold, his other hand bracing the door. "That was great. Hey listen, it's too bad you can't stay longer."

"Just walking her up to the door," Izabel holds her hands up. Against what? Who the hell knows. "I wanted to make sure she got in okay. But let's do this again sometime, yeah?"

"Of course," Britta grins, attempting to break out of Jeff's grasp and failing. "I'll let you know!"

"Sounds great! Goodnight!"

She's barely bid her farewell before Jeff shuts and locks the front door. Britta yanks her arm away and frowns at him. "That wasn't nice. We were _talking_."

"You were talking all night," Jeff returns, crossing through the house and crashing back on the couch, Britta following suit. "Sorry to break up the party, but it's after midnight."

"Okay, _Dad_," Britta grins and Jeff just shakes his head at her. "Damn, I'm never going to get that song out of my head. _Don't come knocking on my door_-"

"Britta," He warns and she frowns.

"Fine, I won't sing it!" She counters, reaching for the sound system. "I have it on my music playlist-"

Before she can turn it on, Jeff's snatched the remote from her hands and she's glaring at him. "What the hell? I was gonna rock out! Come on! Play it! Play that funky music, white boy!"

She bursts into a set of hysterical giggles and Jeff has to stop himself from grinning at her. He's always found drunk-Britta amusing. "Jesus, how much did you drink?"

"I had three," She answers. Three of what, he doesn't know. "Not as much as Izabel, she's a mess. I'm a Mom, now, you know? I've got to stay grounded."

"Ugh," Jeff groans. "You have no _idea_ what kind of night we had here."

"That's great," Britta says. "Can you put my music on, now?"

"You're not listening to music when it took me three hours to get the kids to go to sleep!" Jeff exclaims and Britta stares at him awhile.

"Fine," She gets up and heads toward the kitchen. "I'm getting something to eat. I'll sober up and we can… We can talk it out."

Jeff watches her leave and smirks. This woman is a hot mess, but he loves her to death and even though _her_ children (yes, they're only hers when they're pissing him off) have driven him up the wall tonight, he knows that tomorrow is another day. Will it probably happen all over again? Sure. But he's prepared for it and he doesn't mind. He's sure he gave his own father a hard time growing up, but while William Winger balked and left, Jeff can't imagine ever leaving his wife and child. Because life without Britta, Charlie, Addison, and Matilda? Well, it's a not a life he's interested in at _all_.

He checks on the children while she's sobering up and then decides to change into something much more comfortable, but when he gets to their bedroom, he realizes she's already there. Britta's removing her leather jacket (yeah, just because she's married with children doesn't mean she's changed, so don't expect it), tucking it gingerly in the closet before turning and realizing he's in the room, a small smile forming on her face. He's sure she probably didn't do anything to ease her drunkenness, but she looks much more sober than she did a few minutes earlier and hot, did he mention hot? I mean, why dress like that if you're already married, right?

She crosses the room and pulls him to her level to kiss him and kiss him like she _means_ it. There's groping and there's tongue and that's when Jeff realizes she's not dressing for the club. She's dressing for _him_, and that just makes it so much better. She pulls away and says, "You're really tense. Rough night?"

"The roughest," He tells her. "Your kids are insane. Good luck with them next week while I'm in Aruba with Janelle."

Britta frowns. "You're going to run away with your secretary too? What are you, Alan?"

"Maybe. I need a place where I'm not wiping snot, getting coughed on, or breaking up fights about a fucking yellow crayon," Jeff states and to Britta's confused look he nods. "Oh yeah. Fun night. Lucky for you, they're all yours."

"No, you just had a tough night," She tells him, reaching down seductively to undo the button on his jeans. "You need some unwinding."

"And how do you propose we fix this?" Jeff asks in amusement.

"Hm," Britta grins. "I think you need to get laid."

"What a coincidence," Jeff agrees, immediately beginning to work the zipper on her dress. "So do I."

Clothes fly, lips meet, gasps are heard, moans are released, and they get pretty far. Until-

"Daddy?"

They both freeze. They're on their sides, both completely naked but at least they aren't completely far gone. Jeff's grateful for the dark as he fumbles for his boxers, or jeans, or _something_ to cover himself and Britta immediately steals his sweater, slipping it over her head for modesty as their four-year-old stands in the doorway of their room, clutching her stuffed cat. She's shivering and trembling in her nightgown, her thumb in her mouth and her hair tousled, a curious look on her face.

"What's wrong, Addie?" Jeff asks, trying to calm his breathing as Britta does the same, utterly mortified.

"There's a monster in my closet," Addison complains. "He wants to eat me!"

"A monster?" Britta probes. "Do you need Daddy to scare him away?"

She nods vigorously and Jeff presses a kiss to Britta's cheek before rolling away from her and getting out of bed, scooping their daughter into his arms and saying, "Let's go find that monster! Nobody scares my Addie and gets away with it!"

Over his shoulder, he tells Britta, "This isn't over."

She shakes her head, sending him a saucy grin. As Jeff and Addie head down the hallway, she can hear her daughter ask, "Daddy, were you and Mommy playing a game?"

Jeff hesitantly answers, "Uh… yeah. Yeah, we were playing a game."

"Were you winning?"

Cockily, as he _would_, he answers, "Oh yeah. Daddy _always_ wins."

Britta scoffs and makes a mental note _not_ to let him win, this time.

"Oh Jeff," She responds to his previous statement. "With us, it's _never_ over."


End file.
